Never Changing
by Pride-Of-Angels
Summary: Lonely is the perfect word to describe him. What would you do if the only life you knew, was to smile past the pain? Almost AU Ouran. Suggested violence and undermined/minor sexual themes. First fic -READ AND REVIEW PLEASE ?


It hadn't changed.

He stood with his back to the mirror, facing the tub. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he anxiously awaited the warmth he'd feel as the water caressed his lithe form.

The water would be perfect; it would be the one and only thing in this day of horrors, a day like every other, which would bring him comfort.

Daring to sneak his hand in, he felt it. Warm, but not warm enough. He needed to feel clean. He wanted to feel new. He wished the water would wash away the feelings, the pain.

Testing again, he turned it up higher. Not good enough. Not right. Not perfection, flawed. Those words described more than just the water; it was how he felt at this very moment. Standing in this room, everything white as the first snow, could anyone really feel perfect?

Finally, he stepped into the spray, groaning in satisfaction as the scalding heat burnt right through him. He could feel the warmth spreading, lulling him into a state of peace. The scratches and cuts stung as the water hit them, but he would not shy away. This was nothing compared to what he had felt earlier. It hadn't been the physical pain, no, that was bearable. In fact, that was almost a treat compared to the sheer torture he went through, every time he saw those matching eyes. It wouldn't change.

With a weary glance down, he noted the water had begun washing away the red, leaving his now marred porcelain flesh to be seen. "Beautiful." He mumbled, shaking his head. He took sick satisfaction in the fact that his blood now stained that man's perfect tub. That man was sick.

He had come looking for comfort, for a secure place away from himself, from his other half. His sanctuary had become his asylum. Day after day, he would come back, no matter what was done. He would come back to the man who loved nothing but his body, nothing but what he could see, and nothing of what he couldn't. The man was his love, his scorn, his hate, his pent up feelings, his release. That wouldn't change, not so long as the figure he saw in the mirror haunted him so. It wouldn't change.

As he stood in the ever-falling rain of cleansing droplets, he began the process of cleaning. First he would use the man's shampoo. Waste as much as he wanted, the man never cared. Next he'd take the soap, holding it under the water and watch it melt away, flowing down the drain. Finally, he'd rinse, and with it, the few emotions he allowed himself to show would be washed away.

He would have preferred not to shower, actually. It would have been better to just leave, not stretch the game any longer than need be. Finished with his ritual, he would dress in the same clothes he had entered with. They would seem spotless, perfect like everything else. He would leave the small room. He would close the door, turn out the light, and walk down the bare hall. Down, to the entrance where the man would be waiting. He'd give a nod, just to say he was gone. He'd leave. Not a word spoken. The few words had been enough. They both knew what was going on. The difference was only one truly benefited from this arrangement. Nothing had changed.

"To…home," he'd tell the chauffeur over the intercom. "To hell," he'd murmur to himself.  
When he got home, he'd greet his mother with a smile, plastered on to keep her happy.  
She knew it was a fake, but she wouldn't say a word.  
He'd pass his father, mirror his earlier action. His father wouldn't notice, he was far to busy for the son he knew would never give anything back to him. His father would get no grandchildren from this one. That wouldn't change.

With as much of the family over and done with as he could manage, he would head straight to the bathroom. His bathroom.

He's take out the familiar lavender soap, a soft washcloth, his orange-cinnamon shampoo and conditioner, and the medical kit. All of those had become his regular stash. Nothing had changed. Not today.

Warming the water, he'd leave it this time, choosing a more relaxing temperature. He'd clean off anything he'd missed earlier, paying special attention to his back and thighs. Everything was shredded, but in a few days, they'd be nothing more than another scar. Most men counted notches on bedposts; he counted the scars on his body. It was just his body after all. It meant nothing when it came down to it. It wouldn't change.

He'd take the shampoo, and drown out the smell of the man's own.

He'd won once more. He'd come out much the same as he'd entered. He did not love the man, he couldn't love the man. He only loved himself. Nothing had changed.

But he was wrong. Something had changed.  
As he got out, a knock sounded from the door.

"Hey, you in there," came his own voice from the opposite side of the door. Shocked, he became a living statue, holding his breath as he waited for his brother to leave. "Kaoru?" His name, when had he last heard it?  
"Kaoru, I'm coming in," came the now unsure voice.

That was enough to bring him back. Snatching up his towel, he quickly tied it around his own thin waist, making sure it wouldn't slip. Thankfully, it was just long enough to hide the damage done. His brother didn't have to know, he would never know. Nothing would change.

With a click, the door opened, and there stood his brother. "Did you need something brother?" He heard his own voice ask, much perkier than he felt. He felt dead. Like a puppet with a cruel master tweaking his strings. His mouth would fall open, and out would come words, but they were not his own, there were not what he wished to say.

"No," came his brother's reply, giving him a shrug. Once upon a time, in a perfect world, his brother would have seen his dead eyes. Felt the death he radiated, and asked him –nay, demanded an explanation. He would have jumped to his brother aid, with the knowledge that he could and would do anything for his twin. Once upon a time was the fairy tale ending that had never been.

"Then what is it?" He would ask, raising a brow.

"Just wanted to make sure you were ok."

Now that was new. His brother had said no more than a few broken sentences to him within the past few weeks. Most of which were about his own love. Haruhi.

"I'm fine." He whispered, shaking his head. 'Ok? I'll never be ok again brother, but you don't need to know that. Not if you're happy.' He thought, a single tear forming in the corner of his eye.

By the time it had fallen, Hikaru had already left. Off to see Haruhi no doubt.

With a sigh, he left, picking his clothes off the floor, and replacing his things in the cupboard.

Nothing had changed. Nothing would.

Ok, so this is my first fan-fiction. The idea actually came to me when I heard about an article in the paper. I'm not going to get into that now though.

Anyways-! The point of this small little nuisance at the bottom of the page is to ask you to please review.  
Like it or not, I'd love to know. Spotted a mistake? *o* Where?! Whatever it is, please leave me a quick note, it'd be much appreciated.

Comments are the air I breathe.


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